


Messed Up, Mumbled Up, Mixed Up, Made Up, Shook Up Musain Kids

by PlaguingHamster



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, I just don't know how many pairings/characters there shall be, I really hope you can edit tags, M/M, More tags shall be added, Multi, Other, or i'm dead because i didn't plan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:00:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlaguingHamster/pseuds/PlaguingHamster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my first ever Les Mis fic to be published, and I am scared :'(<br/>For anybody who doesn't know what a bookies is, put it into google, because I can't be bothered. I know, I'm evil<br/>Indeed.<br/>So...<br/>Yeahhhhh...<br/>Read.<br/>That is why you are here.<br/>So...<br/>Bye bye for now, and I shall see you in the notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Messed Up, Mumbled Up, Mixed Up, Made Up, Shook Up Musain Kids

Eponine had always liked appearance.  
She loved the way make up could make you appear a totally different person. The way it could make you have a colourful smile, or a more defined eye. She loved her hair, and the way it could be made dynamic, soft, curly, straight, wavy, or be put up into a glamorous up do. She’d loved it since the day her mother had come home with a purse, full to the brim of things like hair clips, brushes, blushers, and lipsticks. Mrs Thenardier was always coming home with purses and wallets and bags, and they were always filled to the brim with pound notes, and glistening plastic cards. But as they prised this one open, Mrs Thenardier turned her head away in disgust. “Pretty, silly stuff… ‘Ponine!” She pointed at the bag, and then to her eldest daughter. “Take it, you make use of it. Not much use to us, can’t give blusher, or brushes out as winnings.” Eponine’s parents owned a *bookies, just off Spencer Avenue, and were always in debt before their mother began going on mysterious outings. They had owned a big hotel, and they had posh dresses, and money, but when the new reforms came along with the new prime minister, they had to pay too much, and it was cheaper to convert an old chippy, closer to the town centre, into a *bookies. But this meant Mrs Thenardier couldn’t keep home schooling them, so they had to be mainstream schooled. It was the week before that Eponine really decided to put her make up to good use. “Mum…” Eponine asked awkwardly. She was always fearful when asking something of her parents, but more so when it was her mum, because she was always snapping. Thankfully, that day she hadn’t found one dud purse, so she was in a good mood. “Can we go… shopping.” Her mother cocked her head to one side. “Shopping.” she echoed. “Why shopping? You’ve never shown an interest in shopping before. Why now?”  
“Well, we’ve got school next week, and… me and Zelma need uniforms.” she said the last bit in a whisper, getting ready to run from the complaints, and the hurtful remarks, telling her she was a rude, selfish girl, and couldn’t she see that her mother was trying to have some peace and quiet after a hard days work. But her mother had had quite a bit to drink, so she said “Of course, my little chickey, how much, hmmn.” Frankly, Eponine liked it even less when her mother acted all cuddly and cosy, like the way she did in front of the social workers, and outside the police station. But it was working in her advantage, and so, sure enough, her and Azelma were setting off to the town centre the next morning. It was only a five minute walk, but Azelma said her legs were getting tired. “Zelma, for gods sakes, your eleven years old, surely you can manage a five minute walk?” Eponine was a little apprehensive of this new environment, and it was making her irritable. Azelma huffed, but she carried on, and soon enough they were in this vast, white landscape. They were a little in awe of this new place, as they’d never been there before. Their mother had always made their clothes, and Christmas wasn’t really a thing in the Thenardier household, so there had never been any need to venture out the house. Eponine clutched the bag she had to carry the uniforms in her hand, and told Azelma to tug on the arm of the nearest middle aged woman, and ask where the toilets were. She had a hooked pointy nose, and looked like an easy enough target for Ponine. Her father had been teaching her how to “nab” things her entire life, and had often patted her head, and told her she was a natural. Azelma had never been as quick, but she sure was cuter, and prettier, and more importantly younger than Ponine, so it was always going to be easier for Zelma to distract, and Ponine to swipe. “’Scuse me Miss, could you thell me whear thee nearest thoos are?” Azelma over lisped, but it didn’t seem to make much difference to the woman. “Look at her, Harry.” she stabbed at a man behind her who had a short, fat grey face. “Isn’t she the sweetest little thing?” As Harry remarked, Eponine swiped the woman’s purse, and turned to face them, grabbing Azelma’s arm and smiling. “She’s a silly little thing isn’t she. She must have lost me when I nipped into the loos to re apply my lippy.”  
“It’s alright dearie, we were just about to send her off to your direction.” Eponine felt awful, because she was being so nice, but it was that or going and standing out from everybody else. “Well, we’d best be on our way, come on Harry. They limped to the nearest cash machine, so Eponine and Azelma rushed out of sight into the Saturday morning shopping crush. “Did you get it?” Eponine dropped the contents of the purse into her bag, and threw the carcus away. “Come on, let’s find the uniform shop.” She took the eleven year old’s hand, and dragged her to the big map.

“Come on, James.” The big, bulky man shook his head. “It’s just until he can take the entrance exam.” coaxed his wife soothingly.  
“No, Jenny. Absolutely not, they’re all rough, gay, or completely backward. And since Enjolras is none of those things, he doesn’t belong there.” The words of his parents hushed conversation last night still echoed in Enjolras’ golden haired, fourteen year old head the day after they had been spoken. Enjolras wanted to be mainstream schooled. He had been in St Michaels Private School for Boys for years, and he wanted a change. St Micks only took boys up to fourteen, so his parents had been struggling all summer to get him into a public school up to road from where they lived… only to find them oversubscribed. So Enjolras had proposed the idea of sending him to Musian High. “It’s only down the road,” he had reasoned when his father stopped laughing and realised his son was serious about the whole thing “So I could do all my extra curricular after school in the library. Mum could start back at the library again. So can I?” At first his dad had refused, but eventually, his wife wore him down. “You can try it, but if I so much as get a whiff of you becoming like one of those children, then you are being transferred to a boarding school, pronto.” By one of those children, his father meant gay. But he got his way. Which was why Enjolras was now stood in the uniform measuring line. His mother had nipped down the road to the M&S for some white shirts, leaving Enjolras alone. He was pondering through the faces of the kids in the line, when someone joined behind him. “Here, Zelma, let me see you.” Enjolras heard a sigh, and the voice asked “Zelma” to close her eyes. He turned around to see, in surprise, a brunette smearing foundation over a little blonde girl’s face skilfully. The older girl looked up to see the blonde staring. She blushed, and stood up straight. “Hello.” she said in a slightly quieter voice than she had used when talking to, what he assumed, was her sister. “Hello… I’m Enjolras.”  
“Eponine. I’m new.” Enjolras breathed a sigh of relief for the knowledge he wasn’t going to be the only new kid. “What year?”  
“Um…” Eponine obviously didn’t understand the year system.  
“I meant… how old are you?” Enjolras worked out she should be in year ten, so he told her so was he, and began quizzing her about everything. “Enjolras?” His mother stood in the doorway, blonde hair highlighted by the light from outside. Eponine crept back into her shell, and clutched her little sister. New people obviously frightened her, so Enjolras took pity on her, and said bye to her and her sister. Enjolras glanced back just in time to see Eponine cover up a bruise on the face of the younger sibling.

Grantaire was fed up. Seriously fed up. Shopping with your parents wasn’t his idea of a fun way to spend his Saturday morning. If it were up to him, he’d still be in bed, for god’s sake. Not in a stuffy uniform shop at 12 o’clock on a Sunday morning. Scowling, he plugged in his earphones and put on The Smiths. Music was like his personal drug. That and art. They helped him to think, and helped him calm down. Especially when faced with the idea of school. And watching his two best mates squabble like an old married couple. There was too much wrong with shipping your two best mates for Grantaire to handle. Jehan and Courfeyrac were like chalk and cheese, complete opposites. “But you know what they say about opposites, don’t you Taire.” said a lovesick Jehan, and they lay out the sleeping bags for a sleepover they’d had the previous summer. Grantaire was faintly horrified at the idea of the two of them sharing a room, but they managed to restrain themselves.  
Thank god.  
The New York Dolls came on after The Smiths had finished, but by the time Personality Crisis had got into the lyricey bit, they’d arrived. “Are you sure you’re ok, sweetie?” his mother enquired, peering worriedly at him. Ever since he began his emo phrase, his dad had got even more testy, and his mum was worried, like, all the fucking time. They called it his alternative phase. They couldn’t even bring themselves to say the word emo. Shit, his parents were messed up. Probably more messed up than him. And that was hard to do. He’d been through some serious shit in his life. Watched a man die, a boy his own age drown, and his little sister trapped under the water by a huge piece of wood. Jemima and her family had moved away afterwards, they said they couldn’t keep being reminded of Jamie (the boy) and his fate.  
Of course, Taire didn’t have that choice.  
He’d had to stay and put up with the people, the other kids, asking if he was ok, and did he need a day off. And the parents. His dad stopped treating him like an actual human being when he realised he’d seen horrors that he couldn’t imagine. They used to go out to watch horror films together.  
Taire decided he’d had enough horror to last him. For now at least.  
And then came his mother. She used to let him help her cook. Now she jumped when he went so much as four meters near a butter knife. Seriously messed up. Grantaire sighed, as he heard an excited whoop from the other side of the car park, and a blonde cannonball hurtled towards him. 

Jean Prouvaire was born in Cornwall. The perfect, picturesque little cottage, covered in honeysuckle. And for a while, the atmosphere in his family stayed the same. Sickly sweet, everybody smiled all the time, no tears were shed inside the cream walls of that cottage. Until they had May. Then their dad had to start going out to work. New government reforms were being made, and they had their benefits stopped. Dad started getting home at one or two in the morning, and there were hushed arguments every night. All traces of an argument, a busted lip, or the curl of a snarl were metaphorically swept under the table for the next day, for when Jean and May came down for breakfast. It all changed again in 2010 when they had April and August. Twins. Double trouble. And they did cause trouble. Dad had said he didn’t want any more children, because if he did, he wouldn’t be able to support them. They’d die, and so would he. As soon as dad found out, he threw himself into the river. Thankfully, the river wasn’t too deep. But when he got home, shaking, and sopping wet, mum had to call for a doctor. It wasn’t any use.  
By the time the Doctor got there, Mr Prouvaire had died of pneumonia.  
His mum was distraught. People around the Prouvaire children would say in hushed tones that she’d hit the bottle. But Jean knew different. Jean knew that she’d hit something a lot harder, and harsher than that. He’d had to remove large lumps of crack from behind the fireplace all too often. She could fool him at first. Mixing it with the sugar. But he figured it out when They had to take May to hospital because she’d eaten mummy’s special sugar. “I’ll get clean, I promise, Jehan.” Jehan was his pet name, because he hadn’t ever liked Jean. He’d believed her at first, but after a year passed, he saw she was never getting clean. Not with all these people around, calling them the crack family. And he wasn’t coping at school. Jean had always been called a sissy, but when he came out as gay, the other pupils, and even some of the teachers, began to call him words like faggot, gay boy, nancy, all sorts of things. So Jean decided to move up the country, get away from it all. Jean had to sort everything out. His mother was useless. He managed to dredge her up for a meeting with the bank to discuss a mortgage. And, whether it had been the concealer to hide her red eyes, or the fact that he’d convinced all the kids to keep their sad faces on while he tried to haggle a mortgage. Jean didn’t quite know how he managed it, but in the end, he did, and they packed all their stuff into the camper van, and left for up north. Jean straightened the house out, but by the end of the holidays, April and August had begun to call him Jehan, May had lapses now, sometimes calling him mummy, sometimes Jehan, other times Jean. So, consequently, his first day at Musain High, he introduced himself as Jehan. He was being chatted up by girls, told him they loved his hair, as they twiddled with his plait. But Jehan wasn’t interested in girls. He looked over to the back corner, before his vision was blocked by a brunette. “Courfeyrac.” he put his hand out, smiling. “Come sit with us.” he lowered his voice “I know the signs.” Jehan was completely mystified, but blindly went to go and sit with “us”. Courfeyrac brought him to a table, and sat him down in a chair opposite a boy with dark, curly hair, and the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. He looked at him, and bent over his sketchbook almost immediately. Jehan was a little put out, but spoke to Courfeyrac for a little while. But after a few minutes, the curly haired boy pushed across a piece of smooth, white cartridge paper. It was covered in lots of soft little black pencil strokes, and when he turned it around, he saw that it was a picture of him, with pretty blossoms entwined into his plait. At the bottom, he signed his name, or what he suspected was his name. One big curly R. Jehan looked up, and smiled. “R” smiled back at him, and Jehan realised this was the very first day of his new life.

Joly and Bousset were weirdos. According to half the school anyhow. They were only just over fourteen, shared a girlfriend, and occasionally were caught having a threesome behind the drama block. I mean, you couldn’t get much weirder than that. But as Courf looked over at them and their girlfriend, Musichetta, he couldn’t help thinking how happy they looked. They were all smiling as Bousset laced pretty, dark blossoms through Musichetta’s dark gypsy hair. And today they had a new addition to the group. A elfin like young blue eyed girl, with tumbling blonde curls. She had a particularly freckly boyfriend on her arm, and they were nuzzling their noses together. “Do you think it’s weird, Jehan?”  
“Hmmn, sweetie?” Jehan was sizing up whether Grantaire needed a haircut or not.  
“You know, Musichetta, Joly and Bousset.”  
Jehan’s eyes turned to him solemnly “Love is love, Courf.” before he turned back to Grantaire’s mop. He had come out yet, but he had moments where he was very defensive of the LGBT community. So sometimes Courf did wonder… but then his attention was diverted back to Joly and Bousset, Musichetta, and yellow hair with freckles. The five of them moved out of the way, to make way for a man with the curliest, longest red hair Courf had ever seen. He was wearing a school skirt, and a girls blouse and blazer. He continued to stare at them, until Musichetta caught him staring, and marched up to him, swinging her hips. “Can I help you?” she asked, frowning.  
“Um...” Courf was lost, but Grantaire, his saviour, said casually “We were discussing LGBT right, and threesomes, and all that, trying to work out if they were normal. Courf used you guys as an example to prove that it was ok to be in a threesome, or be a transgender, be gay or a lesbian.” Musichetta looked confused, but smiled anyhow, and said “Why didn’t you say so! I’m Musichetta, but you can call me Chetta. Those two, over ther are my boyfriends,”she waved, and they waved back, if a little awkwardly “And the one with yellow hair is Cosette. She’s beautiful, but came out as a bisexual to her friends the other week, and they turfed her out. Bitches. Her boyfriend is Marius, he’s the on with more freckles than I have hairs on my head. And the red head is Feuilly. He’s a transgender, but he’s very sensitive about it, because he’s got self esteem issues.” She paused, taking them all in. “Come sit with us.” She beckoned, skipping back to where all the other guys were stood. Courf stood up and walked over, dragging Jehan and Grantaire with him, and they introduced themselves to them. And Courf’s question was answered. By the end of lunch, Jehan had come out as gay, as had Grantaire. Courf was already out, but still. It was nice to know he wasn’t on his own, people did still have the same ideas as him. And looking around at his new set of friends, he realised it was going to be one hell of a year.

Enjolras breathed a sigh of relief. He’d had a lunchtime of people chatting him up, and had even been talked by a prep into throwing some party down at the park, near where he lived. Enjolras slumped down, and was tapped on the shoulder. “Hey, um… Enjolras?” It was the girl he’d met in the uniform shop, only a few days before, but she looked entirely different. Her hair was poker straight and shiny, her uniform newly customised, with badges on the lapel. But even the confidently applied make up wasn’t going to hide the scars and cuts, battle wounds of life. Enjolras knew a case like that when he saw one, so he smiled readily at her, and told her to sit down. A few other people sat down at the other end of the row for five, but he didn’t look at them until he was required to learn the names of everybody on the row, because they would be working on a project together. One had brown hair, and he was clutching, laughing at a blushing blonde boy who had his hair in a plait. The other one turned around, after having tried to borrow a pencil from someobody, and Enjolras was swept away. He sort of sat there for a moment, gawking, at this godlike figure, with messy chocolate coloured hair, and blue eyes, at least as blue as the depths of the ocean. Eponine blocked his view, so he had time to recover, and when Eponine moved, he was as calm and composed (on the outside at least) as ever. “Enjolras.” he put out his hand, but was met by confused reactions. The brown haired, smiley one dragged the shy blonde one over to give him a hug. eEnjolras stiffened, but eventually gave in and gave the small, blonde one a tentative hug. The dark brown curly one with the eyes looked on in amusement. His eyes locked with Enjolras’, and Enolras buried his head in the small, blonde one’s shoulder, a little embarrassed. When he looked back up, the one with the eyes had bent over his sketchbook, a little smile on his face. “Courfeyrac.” said the brown haired one “And this beautiful human being,” the blonde one giggled foolishly “Is Jehan!” They seemed to forget about their friend, till Enjolras said “Who’s, um, that.” Courfeyrac and Jehan both looked over at the boy bent over the sketchbook. “Grantaire. Introduce yourself.”  
“Give me a minute…” he murmured, a small cleft appearing on his forehead. After a moment, he looked up and smiled. But not at Enjolras. “Eponine!” Grantaire blew her a kiss. Straight. Enjolras sighed, and bent over his workbook. “Who’s the pretty one at the end of the row?” Grantaire was laughing with Eponine. “Enjolras, we met at the uniform shop. Enjolras…” Eponine digged him in the back “Be sociable, there a good boy.”

“You sound like my mother.” He had a voice like a god, all soft, and subtle. He pushed his blonde hair off his face, sighing resignedly over his workbook. Well there went all chances of Grantaire getting any sleep for a week. Enjolras leant over and took his hand. Grantaire looked at it for a moment, before realising he was expected to shake it. Well, you couldn’t really blame him, it was a nice hand. Enjolras looked at him for a good ten seconds while he waited, eventually blushing furiously, and shaking his hand for him. “Right, well he needs a nickname.” Jehan studied him, and suddenly said “Apollo.”  
“Excuse me?” Enjolras looked a little affronted. “I’m not like Apollo.”  
“Oh, but you are my dear Apollo.” drawled Grantaire, the amusement catching him up “with blonde hair, and eyes as blue as stormy sea water…” Grantaire looked back at what he’d been drawing, but wasn’t going to give it him. So he drew out a quick cartoon sketch of Apollo in a Musain High School Uniform, with little angels floating around him, while all the rest of them stood around as mere mortals, bowing to the great Apollo. He wrote something on the back in French, and lent across, giving it to Apollo. Enjolras looked over, and their gaze locked again. Enjolras looked at the paper, and frowned. He’d evidently never taken French. A few minutes later, he put his hand up and asked, “Sir, what does non je ne regretted rien mean?”  
Everybody laughed, and Eponine nudged him “Have you never heard of Edith Piaf?” At the other end of the row, Grantaire was laughing so hard a giggling, pink Jehan had to nudge him to keep him upright. But it was too late. Mr Javert had already walked smartly over, and picked up the paper from a confused Enjolras’ desk, and read it. He raised his eyebrows. “I would ask who drew this, but I’d be wasting my time.” He smiled tightly “Perhaps you and Enjolras would enjoy sharing jokes together picking up litter tomorrow afternoon?” This sobered Grantaire up, and he protested “Sir, it was a joke, but my joke. Enjolras didn’t know anything about it, hones…” He looked up into Javert’s eyes, and saw it was no use. Enjolras looked horrified. Well, you would, having to spend time with someone like Grantaire. Poor guy. Grantaire worked on a little piece to put him out of his misery. It was a letter. 

Enjolras,  
I’m sorry for getting you into trouble. You don’t have to pick up any litter tomorrow. I know it’ll inconvenience you, but if you don’t want to, you don’t even have to talk to me. I’ll just be there in case you fall over.  
I’m really really really really really really reaaaaaaaaaaalllly sorry Apollo (Enjolras, sorry)  
Sorry again :’(  
Grantaire  
P.S. Non, je ne regrette rien means “No, I regret nothing.”  
:)

**Author's Note:**

> I said I shall see you in the notes, but I have only on thing to say.  
> Non, je ne regrette rien ;)


End file.
